


When Death Came to Tea

by 1sendai



Series: The Leprechaun [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Humor, Curses, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Sad ending with a sequel which fixes almost everything., Sexual Humor, Supernatural beings (not the television show), injuries, tags may change at the discretion of the author mostly because I'm shite at tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-09-30 16:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10167257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1sendai/pseuds/1sendai
Summary: Mummy Holmes and Father host a getting to know you party for Sherlock's new partner, John Watson. They are aware of John and Sherlock's relationship thanks to Mycroft but they don't know that John is a Leprecaun—yet.Sadly, Mummy's tea is crashed by the Grim Reaper, who in the end is not the worst guest at the party. Things go down hill from there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the rights from Sherlock or the characters from BBC Sherlock.
> 
> The original story was beta'd by the fantastic Old Ping Hai, any residual or new mistakes are entirely my own.
> 
> This it the sequel to my story Leprechaun, and it was originally posted on FanFIc. Please note that the story is set in an alternate universe. It is not series compliant, and the characters reserve the right to behave entirely out of character whenever they choose.

The World's Only Consulting Detective sat in a defensive, rather unattractive ball on the spindly and amazingly uncomfortable chair. It was surely the only uncomfortable chair in his parents' sitting room. He was quite certain that Mycroft had deliberately maneuvered him into said chair to see him suffer more than he normally would have, during this tea party from hell (more commonly known a 'little gathering to introduce John to the family)'.

Sherlock had hoped that his fierce glare would keep his relatives at bay, but no. He'd been spotted by his Aunt Penelope, who sported five chins, all of which jiggled ominously over her lacy schoolgirl collar as she hobbled over.

"Dear little Sherly," she gushed. "You look so much better than the last time that I saw you."

"Really?" said Sherlock, raising one eyebrow—the better to send Aunt Penelope a death glare. "That may be because I had just gotten out of hospital after OD'ing on…"

"Aunt Penelope!" interrupted Mycroft, gliding over to Sherlock and his aunt like a vampire from a cheap horror flick. "Have you met Sherlock's young man? He's in the kitchen, I believe, demonstrating his uncanny ability to make tea." Mycroft tugged at his Aunt's large, flabby arm and sent her off toward the kitchen, where most of the party had gathered, apparently to watch John Watson make cup after cup of perfect tea.

"Behave yourself, brother!" hissed Mycroft without moving his smiling lips.

"I am," hissed Sherlock. He didn’t have as much practice as Mycroft, so lips did move a tiny bit, but his smile held more teeth and looked more dangerous than his brother's. "I was only going to tell our Auntie the truth."

"You would scandalize her for no reason, ruining the party for our parents—again! This is the first family event that you have attended in four years…"

"I wouldn't be here at all, except that you manipulated, lied and finally kidnapped us…"

"Mummy and Father only wished to meet your young man…"

"He's not my young man. He's older than I."

"Mm, and how old would that be?" queried the older Holmes brother, fishing for information again.

"How old do you think he is?" countered Sherlock.

"I find it repugnant that my younger sibling should be partnering with a man who has no past, no records, no papers of any kind," snapped Mycroft, who had spent countless hours trying to discover John Watson's true identity, all in vain.

"He has papers, Mycroft," said Sherlock mildly, while showing his teeth like a barracuda.

"Papers which I forged for him as a favor to you," said Mycroft. "And his false identity could be destroyed as easily as it was created."

"In which case, John and I will disappear, never to be seen again," said Sherlock. He sniffed in disgust and added, "I may choose to disappear anyway if I am forced to spend much more time with our family."

"Don't attempt to distract me, Sherlock," snarled Mycroft. "I don't know a thing about this man. I doubt you know the truth about him. He's hiding his past for a reason."

"You're right about one thing," said Sherlock with a smirk. "John is hiding. He's hiding from someone who wishes him ill."

"I see. And who is after him? Did he steal from a criminal organization? Or is it worse; is he a deserter? Has he betrayed a governmental agency—perhaps the CIA?"

"Bah, you've spent too long playing spy games, Mycroft," sneered the younger brother. "Through no fault of his own, he is wanted by someone…"

"Bah, yourself, dear brother," sneered Mycroft. "They all claim that it's no fault of theirs. He is, no doubt, a common criminal…"

"Wrong! He's a fine man…"

"He has you bewitched!"

Sherlock paled, "What do you know of it?"

"I know what I see," said the elder brother. "I see a man besotted, who is being played for a fool by a common con man."

Sherlock sighed in relief. His brother didn't know that John actually did possess the ability to bewitch someone—or at least cast his glamour on them.

A half-hearted cheer and ragged applause arose from the kitchen. The two brothers looked up in consternation. The sitting room was empty; the entire party had moved into the kitchen.

"What is your con man/boyfriend up to now?" snapped the bureaucratic brother. "Surely his tea isn't so spectacular that it merits applause."

"No," muttered Sherlock, who feared that his leprechaun had forgotten himself and was performing magic. John was supposed to keep his magical abilities secret for fear that someone (i.e. Mycoft) would discover it and then seek to exploit it. Sherlock lurched up and then raced to the kitchen, nearly knocking his brother over.

"I did it. I did it!" cried Cousin Phillip. He was pudgy, twenty-seven and fancied himself a magician. There was another round of polite applause from the assembled family members.

"What did you do?" growled Sherlock, looking for his missing partner. "And where is John Watson?"

"I made him disappear!" exclaimed Phillip, waving a plastic, glitter-covered magician's wand from some toy shop.

"Well, you best bring him back," said Mummy, ever the voice of practicality. "I'd like to serve tea now."

Phillip tapped the wand against the pantry door three times. The lights flickered mysteriously, courtesy of young Leonora, who lurked next to the light switch. Phillip grinned conspiratorially and opened the door with a flourish. The pantry remained jam-packed with tins and sundries but did not contain a short blond man.

The room was silent. Thunder rumbled ominously.

Someone tittered nervously.

"What have you done!" roared Sherlock, reaching for his plump cousin's throat. Aunt Penelope muffled a cry of distress into her hankie, as Mycroft tugged his brother in one direction and Mummy tugged Phillip in another direction.

"Oh, my golly," cried the stupidest Holmes relation, "I really made him disappear. I really am magic!"

"I'll kill him," announced Sherlock.

"I feel faint," squeaked Aunt Penelope.

"Well, I can't understand how a ten-stone man could just vanish from our cupboard," said Father, examining the pantry with his handy pocket torch.

"Don't be foolish," hissed Mycroft at everyone, most especially at his furious sibling. "I'm sure John is playing a childish prank. He must have snuck off...perhaps he's skulking upstairs."

"He went outside to check on a horn or something," said Cousin Avaril, twisting a stand of auburn hair between her fingers. She was twenty-three...no twenty-four and had finally given up her hopeless crush on Sherlock—only to be smitten with the blond tea maker. Avaril had followed the leprechaun like a puppy all afternoon.

"But surely John wouldn't go outside now, not when it's about to storm. See, it's already raining," said Mummy. "Besides, the scones are done."

"Ha, everyone knows Phillip can't perform magic," piped in young Leonora, turning against her cousin with true Holmesian disdain. Anything to gain attention, it was a familial fault. "It's not as though everyone didn't know that I was making the lights blink."

"But _why_ would John go out in the rain?" demanded Mummy, with a hint of iron in her voice. Her ire fell upon her youngest son. "Tell me why. And just as the scones were finishing, too."

Sherlock didn't know why, and he didn't like not knowing. He blinked and ignored his mother's question.

"All I know was that John said he heard a horn, and off he popped," said Avaril, standing in Sherlock's personal space for no good reason.

The tall detective strode over to the window, looking out into the rain.

The guests began to mutter amonst themselves. "Did you hear a horn?" "I didn't hear any horns." "I hope this doesn't delay tea time." "We never should have come here. Something strange always happens whenever that Sherlock is around."

"Horns…" murmured Mummy thoughtfully. "Maybe it's my sister Beatrice. She should have been here by now, and she _would_ honk for no good reason. Beatrice said that she wouldn't miss meeting anyone who'd take up with Sherlock, come hell or high water. Come to think of it, I don't know what she meant by that. Anyone would be lucky to take up with Sherlock." The Holmes matriarch pushed her son temporarily out of the way, lifting the ruffled curtain to peer out into the murk. "Well, don't see Beatrice's car, but it’s very hard to see anything. That sky is black as night, and the rain's coming down in buckets! I cannot think _why_ John would go out in the rain, even if he did hear a car horn. And just as the scones were done, too. He said _several times_ that he was looking forward to tasting my scones."

"Damn the scones," Sherlock muttered mutinously, under his breath, as he stared out of the window. He couldn't see anything either, only wind-driven rain illuminated by lightning. What _was_ John was out there in that blasted storm? And what was this business with a horn? The detective had a bad feeling about all this, and while he generally didn't base any of his actions on some ill-defined sentiment, he would make an exception for John. He reached for his coat but was stopped by his father, who laid a hand on his arm.

"Well, now just a moment, son. I don't see how your young man could just sneak out the back door," said Father. "I mean we were all right here. Even with Leonora playing with the lights, we would have noticed if your John stepped out. He must still be in the house."

Holmes the Eldest stuck his head in the pantry, shifting the contents around, as though he expected to find John hiding behind the tins of soup.

Sherlock ignored his father's questions and shook free of his father's hand. Obviously, he couldn't reveal that John was in fact a magical being, who was more than capable of disappearing in front of everyone. Sherlock didn't give a damn what his father was saying now; the detective was too busy trying not to panic. He had deduced that John was in some sort of magical danger (why else disappear without telling Sherlock), and Sherlock had to find his leprechaun _now_.

"How long has he been out there?" demanded Sherlock, pulling on his dark great-coat. Right on cue, there was a faint flash of lightning. As the detective fixed his blue scarf around his neck, the thunder grumbled long and low—and distinctly louder than before.

"You shouldn't go out there, Sherlock; that storm is getting worse," protested Mummy. "And the scones…"

"Never mind the scones!" snapped Sherlock, restraining his full fury only because it was Mummy. "And never mind the storm. I have to find John."

Mummy looked at Father, who nodded.

"Very well, but you _will_ put on a hat, young man," ordered Mummy. Thunder sounded again, even louder this time.

Father stuck a faded canvas Tilley hat on his son's head. Sherlock turned toward the door but was blocked by Mummy.

"Wait!” called Mummy. "Mycroft, you must help your brother find John." "I don't need his help." Sherlock snarled even if it was Mummy, because this was just delaying his search for John.

"But Mummy,” Mycroft protested, “It's raining, and I won’t be able to use my umbrella in all that wind. Besides, the scones are ready."

The British government quailed before Mummy's flinty-eyed stare.

Father sympathetically patted Mycroft's shoulder before handing his son a hideous green rain slicker and stuffing a matching hat on top of the British Government's head. Once he was appropriately attired, Father opened the door, which flew out of his hand from the wind, nearly slamming into Avaril. The two brothers stumbled out, to be swallowed up by the gale.

The Holmes brothers fought to make headway against the rising wind and rain; within minutes their shoes and trousers were soaked.

"This is hateful," shouted Mycroft, trying not to cower as thunder cracked overhead. "Is John prone to wandering about in storms?"

"No!" shouted Sherlock. Although he really couldn't say for sure, because he and John had only been together for about a month.

A flash of lightning temporarily blinded him, and then thunder rolled around him, reverberating through his very bones.

Where was John? What could he have been thinking? Another bolt of lightning struck nearby and the thunder crashed again. Sherlock bit his lip, looking in vain for clues. He despaired of finding anything in the gathering dark and heavy downpour.

His heart twisted uncomfortably in his chest. He wanted to believe that John had been driven into the storm due to the hellish inanity of the tea party; after all, Sherlock could fully sympathize with that. But there was that bit about a horn. And John had obviously risked using his ability to 'go unseen', despite the presence of all those party guests.

No, clearly the renegade leprechaun had responded to some supernatural call, and if magic was involved how was Sherlock to find his missing lover?

"John!" he shouted, although the rain and thunder swallowed his shout. The din was so loud, that the detective couldn't hear his own voice. Nevertheless, he called again and again, "John! John, where are you? John!"

"Sherlock," Mycroft shouted into his ear, pointing to the wood lot behind the Holmes family home.

An eldritch, pale blue light flickered from inside the copse.

"Damn," muttered Sherlock. There was the proof; someone or something was wielding magic in those woods. It was risky to go on—if that light wasn’t emanating from John and if the source was hostile, Sherlock would be helpless against it. 

But what if John was in trouble? Sherlock was determined to carry on, but there was no reason to put Mycroft at risk too. Anyway, Sherlock didn't want his brother to learn of John's abilities. So he yelled over the storm, "Mycroft! Go back, back to the house."

"Don't be a fool! You can't..."

Whatever his brother had been about to say was lost as the storm unleashed its full fury on the two siblings. Bolts of lightning burst around them; the wind and thunder roared, sounding like a cavalcade of riders pounding towards them.

"Look out!"

The tempest overtook them, knocking the brothers to the ground. Looking up from under the hand, shielding his eyes, Sherlock saw leaves and branches flying past. He shook his head; in the roiling clouds it almost seemed as if he saw dark warriors on black steeds; he almost thought that he heard their cries and the sound of hooves thundering past.

The elder Holmes grabbed Sherlock's neck and dragged him close, trying to shelter him from the end of the world. The storm howled and shrieked, sucking the air out of Sherlock's lungs as he tried to shout to his brother over the tidal wave of sound.

The sky had ripped open, and the ensuing deluge tried to drown them. He now held his hand over his mouth, desperately trying to breathe in spite of water sheeting down upon him. The rain struck him painfully, and he realized that it was more than rain. Mud, leaves, twigs and hail mixed with the downpour, stinging his hands and face. Miraculously, the larger branches, small trees and what seemed to be someone's roof sailed safely past. Like the lighting, the larger missiles always just missed the two brothers.

The tempest seemed to last forever, but he knew it was only several minutes before the inchoate shrieks died down. The fierce wind began to slow and the thunder and lightning began to head eastward. The worst was past; the rain still came down but in decent, more normal, properly _English_ amounts. Sherlock could actually breathe again, and he sucked in deep draughts of the ozone-tainted air.

The siblings still clutched one another like terrified children. Then they remembered that they were stoic British men and quickly pushed each other away. They stumbled to their feet and surveyed the wrack and ruin.

"What the hell..." yelled Sherlock.

"It must have been a tornado!” Mycroft yelled.

"Oh, who cares! John? John!" shouted Sherlock.

"Oh for God's sake, forget about John!" Mycroft shouted back. "What about Mummy?"

Sherlock shook his head. Thunder sounded yet again, though it was now moving away, leaving Sherlock to call for his lover in vain. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns, a bit worse for wear and bearing a message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original posting for this chapter (on FF) was edited by my wonderful beta, Old Ping Hai. All remaining errors are strictly my own.  
> I still don't own the rights to Sherlock.

Chapter 2  
"John, answer me!" shouted Sherlock, whirling around in the early dusk.

"Never mind about that foolish, little man! We must return to the house," cried Mycroft. "What if someone was hurt. What if…Oh, dear God! I can't see the house. Where's the…"

"It's right where you left it. It's fine, except the electricity seems to be broken," said John, who appeared as if out of nowhere. Indeed, the house could be seen, if only just, as a darker hulk standing against the dark and weeping sky. A bolt of lightning briefly illuminated the house before rain and fog concealed it once more.

The consulting detective drew the shorter man to his chest, while murmuring his name over and over, but his momentary relief fizzled as John stood stiff and motionless. The leprechaun didn't exactly resist Sherlock's embrace, but neither did he melt into the younger man's arms the way he usually did. In fact, John didn't even try to reciprocate the hug, which was very unlike the normally affectionate sprite.

"Well, it's about time you showed up, John Watson," began Mycroft sourly.

"Time?" muttered John, blinking as rain pelted his face.

Sherlock snatched the battered old Tilley hat off of his own head to shield John's face from the storm. In another flash of lightning, the detective observed a long, bleeding slash that cut across John's face from temple to chin. Fortunately it missed John's beautiful eyes, eyes that stared at the sky and not at Sherlock.

"John, you're injured. You're bleeding. What happened?"

"For God's sake, Sherlock, it's obvious! He was struck by debris, just as we were." Mycroft gathered his soggy dignity and his outrage and lashed out at his brother's boyfriend. "As for you, Mr. Watson, you're a fool. You could have gotten yourself killed. You could have gotten Sherlock killed!"

John blinked and slowly turned toward Sherlock, seeming to look past the consulting detective. Sherlock hated this. He was used to being the center of John's world. Why wasn't he the focus of John's attention now?

"No," said John so quietly that it was difficult to make out his words over the wind and rain. "Sherlock was never in danger. I made sure that he was lucky enough to escape unharmed."

"Gibberish!" snapped Mycroft. "You're mad." The elder Holmes turned towards his brother, "He's mad. It's a miracle we weren't all killed.”

"It was luck, not a miracle," said John absently, narrowing his eyes at the clouds.

"How badly are you hurt?" demanded Sherlock, who didn't like John's strange, distant voice. "Did you hit your head?"

In the deepening dusk, the detective could see John slowly shaking his head no.

"Well, _I'm_ battered within an inch of my life," complained Mycroft. "And Sherlock is probably hurt too; he fell."

"You pushed me down!" Sherlock protested.

"The storm pushed you," claimed the waterlogged British government. "I'm fairly certain that your head struck the ground. You probably have a concussion."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, even though no one could appreciate his grimace in the dark.

Then on top of everything else, John began to glow, which meant he was doing some sort of leprechaun magic.

Sherlock grabbed the shorter man's arm and whispered into his ear, "John, stop it; you're glowing." However, John ignored Sherlock, his attention still fixed on the retreating storm. Sherlock's concern mounted, because this was entirely out of character for the leprechaun who doted on Sherlock and usually followed his orders...make that his advice.

Sherlock could only hope that John wasn't suffering from some supernatural injury or a curse or a spell or something.

He also hoped that his brother, the British government, didn't notice John's golden aura. Mycroft would be first in line to abduct and then 'study' a magical leprechaun like John. Then the poncy bureaucrat would probably want to weaponize Sherlock's boyfriend—or worse.

Still, normal humans couldn't see the faint light that emanated from John whenever he performed magic, so perhaps Mycroft wouldn't notice it either.

This hope was short lived, because Mycroft, as usual, noticed everything. His eyes widened, and then narrowed into slits as he stared incredulously at the lambent leprechaun.

"Shite," muttered Sherlock. So much for keeping his brother ignorant of John's otherworldliness.

"I can tell that Sherlock is fine...as are you…aside from some bruising," intoned John in a sepulchral voice that Sherlock didn't even recognize. "Those…I could heal." 

"You mean treat...You could treat our bruises using Mummy's first aid kit," said Sherlock, in a vain attempt to distract Mycroft.

"He said 'heal', Sherlock; I'm not deaf. And he's glowing," said Mycroft.

And so it was Mycroft and not Sherlock who finally captured John's full attention.

The leprechaun stared at Mycroft as if only now recognizing him. The blond blinked rapidly, his eyes glittering as the sky lit up again.

Then _finally_ he turned to look at Sherlock with focused eyes.

"Sherlock?" said John.

"John," sighed the detective, enfolding his leprechaun in his arms again. This time, John leaned into Sherlock; this time John brought his arms around his lover's waist. John was John again, pliant and affectionate… _and_ bleeding and shivering and…

"We have to get you back to the house," Sherlock said to his precious sprite.

"No. You are not bringing that _thing_ back into our house," said Mycroft.

"What?" exclaimed Sherlock, instantly furious on John's behalf.

"Sherlock! It…he…is glowing!" snapped Mycroft. His hands opened and shut aimlessly, no doubt missing the reassurance of his faithful umbrella.

"You do _not_ get to decide…" began the detective, only to be interrupted by John.

"Wait. I'm what?" said the blond, looking down at his compact hands, which, in addition to glowing, were cut and bleeding. Sherlock grabbed one of John's hands to examine it more closely, "I don't see any glow," muttered John sounding grumpy now.

Sherlock vastly prefered grumpy over that eerie monotone voice that John had approached them with. He drew John close to shelter him from the cold rain and from Mycroft.

Meanwhile, the two brothers now glared suspiciously at one another. Mycroft spoke first. "Sherlock, can you see that he's glowing?" queried the older sibling.

"Can you?" Sherlock snapped back.

"You can see it," deduced Mycroft.

"And so can you. Fine. We'll discuss it later. John is injured and needs…"

"Bah! A few cuts from the storm," said Mycroft. "What I want to know is..."

"Oh no," said John, "The cuts are from Fionn. He whipped me when he rode off. They all did—more or less. They always go a bit mad when their invitation is rejected—violent tempers, the lot of them. One of them got my shoulder pretty good, too. It's always my shoulder…" John's grumbling trailed off, as he twisted his neck, trying look at the back of his left shoulder.

"Fionn? Do you expect me to believe that you met Fionn mac Cumahill and somehow managed to escape—and then live to tell about it?" Mycroft demanded in disbelief.

"Who's Finn?" demanded Sherlock who disliked not knowing anything—especially when Mycroft so clearly _did_ know it, whatever it was. Not to mention, Sherlock had a feeling that this Finn should be placed on the list of Beings Who Wanted John (the original title had been Beings Who Had Shagged John or Who Wanted to Shag John, but that file name was a bit too unwieldy).

John frowned, clenching his injured hands; a tiny bit of light leaked out from his fists. "Yes, I did meet Fionn. I've met him many times, and obviously I lived to tell about it." The 'so there' remained in subtext.

"You left the party to meet with someone named Finn?" demanded Sherlock jealously.

"I had to," said John simply.

"Had to?" from Mycroft.

"Really? And just who is this _FINN_?” Sherlock demanded. He felt that he was remaining surprisingly calm, all things considered.

"Fionn mac Cumhaill, the leader of the Wild Hunt," said John to his lover. "He summoned me."

"Summoned you? How?" asked Mycroft.

"Summoned you? Why?" shouted Sherlock, assuming that if he talked louder then John would ignore Mycroft and finish answering Sherlock's questions first.

"He called me to the hunt with the horn like always," said John answering Mycroft first (which was hateful to Sherlock).

"I didn't hear a horn," said Mycroft, nodding at Sherlock as if they were on the same team, which was preposterous. Sherlock repositioned himself to hover over his leprechaun, so that there would be no doubt that he was on John's team.

"Well, _did_ you hear any horns?" Mycroft asked his brother.

"Of course he didn't. Only one who is summoned can hear the horn of Fionn mac Cumhaill, aside from certain seers," interjected John, answering for his boyfriend.

" _Why_ did he call you?" demanded both the Holmes brothers.

"Oh, the usual reasons," said John, scowling down into the mud.

"To join him on his murderous rampages?" sneered the British government.

"Oh God, he covets your body, doesn't he?" exclaimed the younger Holmes.

"Yes and yes," said John wearily. "He's wanted me to join the Hunt for a long time now, ever since I healed one of his riders, Hippolyta...not the queen of legend, obviously, but her granddaughter. Ever since then, the Fianna have invited me to join the hunt—every few decades. Not only be a huntsman, you know, but to also be a sort of medical officer. Which is really very flattering." John gave the sky a suspicious sideways glance, then said confidentially "To be quite honest, I've never been all that fond of horses. That's why I originally joined the infantry instead of the cavalry."

"Clearly, you are feeling better," snapped Sherlock, "because as usual, you can't stick to the topic."

"What?" asked John, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I thought we were talking about the Fianna?"

"And..."

John scratched his head and blinked, " _annnnd_ , I'm cold and wet and would like to get in out of the rain?"

"AND, this Finn wants to have his way with you!" shouted Sherlock.

"Oh. That. Well, Fionn is a lusty man and wants to have his way with practically everyone. It's common knowledge."

"I knew it," said Sherlock scowling furiously.

"Well, I never agreed to bed him. Not once. I prefer not to be a one-night diversion. And tonight, as usual, I politely declined both the offer of joining the hunt and the offer of _knowing_ Fionn mac Cumhaill, if you know what I mean," said John, with raised eyebrows. John was much more like himself now, but Sherlock was too worried about this Finn fellow to appreciate that John had recovered from whatever caused his earlier mental confusion.

Then John said, "But Fionn's legendary unsavory habits aren't important right now."

"Oh really?" asked Sherlock, immediately suspicious. When he had first appeared John was bemused, one might say bewitched. Then John defends this supernatural but _lusty_ nightrider?

"Shouldn't we return to the house?" asked John.

"No!" said the Holmes brothers. Mycroft smirked to have Sherlock on his side again. Sherlock ignored his brother to berate his possibly unfaithful leprechaun.

"Some supernatural person named Finn, who lusts after my boyfriend, signals with a horn, and _my boyfriend_ responds instantly, running off into a storm without a word to me and disappears into the woods alone with this magical hunter, then... _then_ , when my _so-called boyfriend_ finally creeps out of the woods he's dazed, cut and bleeding—and _you say that's not important_?"

"Wait," said John, glaring up from under deeply, disapproving brows. "What are you implying?"

"I think you know," said Sherlock, adding as final proof, "I saw the fairy light."

"In the name of Hecate, that wasn't Faerie light, that was the spectral light of the incorporeal Fianna," said John, "Anyway, Fionn is not one of the Fae."

"He lusts after you!"

"JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH! Fionn lusts after everyone. I can handle Fionn mac Cumhaill and his enchantments," asserted John.

"You were enchanted? How do you know what you did when you were enchanted?" Sherlock growled.

"It was a summonsing enchantment," replied John sharply, "which one cannot refuse. But the call to arms and the invitation to warm his bed is still a matter of choice. Choice is important to the Fianna. Although admittedly Fionn does stack the deck by using his glamour to look irresistibly masculine.”

"This is fascinating, but not to the point," interrupted Mycroft.

"Shut up, Mycroft," snapped the angry detective. "So you didn't resist his summons?"

"Not his summons, no. But I would have gone anyway to see what he wanted…"

"He wanted you."

"Yes, but…"

"And you came when he called."

"It's Fionn mac Cumhaill. You have to come when he calls!" shouted John, jutting his chin out. "But…" he paused, poking Sherlock with his finger for emphasis, "but he never forces anyone to join the hunt or his bed. Never!"

"You returned to me dazed…"

"I wasn't dazed..."

"You were! You don't get _that_ dazed even after a good shagging."

"I don't wish to hear any more of this," said Mycroft primly. He was ignored.

"Well, perhaps I was a _little_ dazed," said John. "And if I was, dazed that is, it's because I was concentrating on his lusty advances, and because I had to spread luck to you and your family. Plus, he keeps blowing that bloody horn of his, and it's distracting." John looked off toward an impressive display of cloud-to-cloud lightning and got that far-away look in his eyes again.

"John, stay with me," demanded Sherlock.

The leprechaun blinked and then smiled at his lover. "Of course I'm staying with you. Always."

Relief flooded the detective, his John, his loving, smiling Leprechaun had was back and safe—and as loyal as ever.

"Let's go back to the house, John," said Sherlock.

"Not so fast!" said Mycroft. "We are not bringing a fairy of unknown provenance to roost in our family's abode."

John gasped, and Sherlock winced, being well acquainted with John's antipathy towards fairies.

"Wrong!" protested John sharply. "I am not a sodding blue-blooded fairy; I am a leprechaun."

"Do you take me for a fool?" Mycroft almost snarled. "If you were a leprechaun you'd be guarding fairy treasure."

"Which I did for two hundred years, until Sherlock freed me from the curse," said John crossing his arms with a huff.

"Sherlock? How could Sherlock remove a curse?" demanded the elder Holmes.

"He did it by making me fall in love with him and so growing a new heart," replied the leprechaun.

"You expect me to believe that Sherlock Holmes was so lovable that you..."

"Can we not talk about this?" complained Sherlock.

"Yes, he _is_ that lovable," John stoutly asserted. "He's very lovable, and I love him, and that for you and your insults towards the finest man that I have ever met." John snapped his fingers under Mycroft's nose before turning his back on the British government.

Suddenly an unearthly howl rent the stormy night.

"What was that?"

John bit his lip. "Well...it might be a friend...then again it might not be a friend. I can't say that I recognize her voice."

"Voice? That sounded like a dog howling," said Sherlock.

"More like a wolf," said John. "We better get back to the house."

"There are no wolves in Britain, John," said Sherlock following his brother who was suddenly hurrying toward their parents' home.

"No, but there are werewolves," said John. "I crossed paths with several in London. In fact, there's at least two working at the Met."

"And you didn't think to mention it to me?" cried Sherlock, stepping in front of the shorter man and stopping him cold.

"I thought you probably already knew—after all, you have the Faerie-sight, as does your brother,” said John. "Nevertheless, the next time I see one, I'll point him out to you—or her."

"Good."

"But I won't actually point at him—or her."

"No?" said the detective, as John dragged him toward the darkened house.

"Of course not. That would be rude, and it never pays to be rude to a werewolf."

"Sherlock!" hissed Mycroft, who had come to a stop by a large yew. "There's something going on! Up by the front door. People...you don't think it's Cousin Prudence and her obnoxious brood? I cannot abide any of them. Mummy said that she'd invited Prudence. Can you make out who..."

"I can't see in the dark, Mycroft!"

"Well, neither can I!" snapped Mycroft in a harsh whisper. "But I can tell that the tallest person is wearing a cape, just like Prudence always wears."

"We can't just hide out here behind the hedge," protested Sherlock.

"It isn't your Cousin Prudence," said John, leaning tiredly against Sherlock. "You know, you could both see much better if you actually used your Faery-sight properly."

“As if you’d recognize my Aunt Prudence,” Sherlock scoffed.

"What is he going on about?" Mycroft asked.

"I can see him glow when he's using magic. And apparently so can you," explained Sherlock. "John thinks it's _'fairy-sight'_." "It _is_ Faery-sight," insisted John.

"Perhaps…” Mycroft murmured.

"Oh my God, that's really not important right now," said John.

"Well, I think it is," Mycroft and Sherlock responded in tandem.

"No, it's not," said John, his mouth twisting for emphasis. "What's important is that Fionn was carrying a message for me, which he delivered right before whipping me."

"And that message was?" prompted Sherlock.

"Death," said John biting his lip and raising his brows. "Fionn said Death was coming to tea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope to see you all next week with chapter 3.  
> Happy Shamrock Day!!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uninvited Guests crash Mummy"s tea party. Someone might want John for dinner…or did he want Sherlock? And was it for dinner or something else?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earlier version Beta'd by Old Ping Hai, the revisions are un-Beta'd and as always, all mistakes are my own.
> 
> In case you haven't noticed:this story is not series compliant nor are the characters 'in character". But since John is a leprechaun, you should have deduced that already.
> 
> I don't own the rights to BBC Sherlock or any of their characters.

Despite the poor visibility due to falling rain and oncoming nightfall, Mycroft, Sherlock and John were immediately spotted by Father when they rounded the shrubbery. So much for subterfuge.

Soon cries of relief and some indignation drown out the sounds of the receding storm, while a of torch lights blinded all three of them even as they tried to shield their eyes with their arms.

The Homes brothers agreed on few things, but they were of one mind when it came to anyone fussing over them—they despised fussing. Of course the entire extended Holmes family spilled outside in order to fuss over the two brothers who had been thought lost in the storm.

"Boys!" cried Mummy, her strident voice carrying over the din. "Where on _earth_ have you _been_? We were _so_ worried!"

Neither of the boys could get a word in edgewise, nor could they enter the house with Mummy planted squarely in the doorway.

"Really, I thought you boys would have enough sense not to venture out into such a terrible storm!" scolded the matriarch.

"But Mummy, you forced me to go," Mycroft complained, as she grasped her eldest child by the elbow, dragging him into the candlelit kitchen.

"Don't take that tone with me, Myke," ordered Mummy.

Her voice was temporarily lost in the racket of everyone trying to talk above everyone else. Concerned and nosy relatives blocked the door, leaving Sherlock no choice but to push his way in, jostling everyone and earning his usual complement of disapproving comments and thinly veiled insults. Somewhere along the line, Cousin Avaril attached herself to John, leaving the consulting detective to trail behind his leprechaun. The warm kitchen smelled of scones, ham and too many damp Holmeses. Not surprisingly, Sherlock vented his irritation and frazzled nerves by slamming the door shut with a loud bang followed by pouting.

Mummy gave Sherlock _a look_. Then she commanded silence, which Mycroft ignored saying, "It was John's fault! We were only looking for him after he got lost in the woods like a witless cretin, leaving us to get caught in the downburst. The winds were dreadful: I think it may have been a derecho. It was a miracle that we weren’t hurt.” He scowled at John, ready to throw the leprechaun under the bus, like any good politician would.

And like any good leprechaun, John was ready to protest that it wasn't a miracle but rather luck, which had protected everyone. Indeed, he probably wanted to argue that it wasn’t a storm at all but rather a sign of some supernatural visitation. Sherlock didn't give his boyfriend the opportunity to make either protest, because Sherlock shoved a cup of tea up to his leprechaun's lips. It was either drink, choke or spill the tea. As Sherlock had predicted, John was loath to waste tea, and he swallowed it while sparing a side-eyed glare with his partner.

Sherlock put a protective (and he hoped controlling) arm around his sprite, which also dislodged Avaril from John's side. However, it also brought Mummy's sharp glance over to John and Sherlock.

"Just look at the two of you!" said Mummy accusingly. She abandoned Mycroft to Father’s.

"You're soaked to the bone. Give me some towels!" she ordered.

Like a trained scrub nurse, young Leonora passed dry towels to Mummy. Mummy handed one towel to the leprechaun and then tried to pat her younger son dry.

"You'll catch your death if you don't dry off, Sherlock," she tutted.

Sherlock flinched like a cat at her touch and pulled the towel away from Mummy, muttering that he wasn't a child, and death would be preferable to all this annoying hubbub.

Mummy tsk'ed and turned to scold and fuss over John instead.

The Holmes matriarch held out her hand, and Leonora slapped another towel into it. John's hair was roughly tousled by Mummy's efficient toweling off. Like his older brother, Sherlock was not above throwing John under the bus—when said bus was Mummy.

Made of sterner stuff than consulting detectives and bureaucrats, the former army officer stoically stood to attention under her ministrations. He didn’t even spill his tea.

"Oh dear, oh dear! You'll be sure to come down with a cold after this, John! Going out in the rain without a hat, not even a coat. What would your mother say?"

John nodded helplessly, or maybe his head was jerked up and down as she scrubbed his short blond hair dry.

Sherlock felt a twinge of jealously at his own mother as she played with his John's hair. He was also annoyed with himself for not thinking to dry John off before, because it left John flushed pink with his hair sticking up all over the place as if he'd been well shagged. Sherlock decided that this was a most fetching look for John, one which would be replicated—later.

Mummy tutted some more and patted John's face dry. Sherlock was truly uncomfortable with Mummy touching his leprechaun and making John look so shaggable. It wasn't right. It was Oedipal or something, and it had to stop.

But it was Mummy. The genius tried rather desperately to think of a way to make her stop.

"My goodness, John, look at this cut!" exclaimed Mummy, shaking her head at the long cut on John's cheek.

"How can he look at it? It's on his face," Sherlock said disagreeably. It was the best he could come up with. He had to tread lightly, because _it was Mummy_. The matriarch didn't bother to respond to her son's moody reply.

"Oh, I hope it doesn't scar your handsome face," continued Mummy. "And Good Lord, just look at your shoulder! It's bleeding, too. You could have been killed by flying debris, John. I recently read an account of a poor woman who was impaled and killed by flying debris in a terrible cyclone in Oklahoma."

She paused for breath, while John twisted around, obediently trying to look at his shoulder.

Mummy planted her hands gently but firmly on John's shoulders, bringing the leprechaun's attention back to the matriarch. Sherlock privately admitted that this was a shrewd maneuver on Mummy's part, because even at the best of times, the leprechaun was very distractible.

"Whatever possessed you to run off into that storm, John? You could have been hurt! The boys could have been hurt! The scones were just…"

"Sorry, Ma'am," said John, once again standing at attention to receive his dressing down and the requisite drying off. Then he began to explain, "But I really had no choice. Fionn called me and…"

"And his mobile phone signal was poor," continued Sherlock, attempting to cover for his idiot partner, who had forgotten his promise to keep his magical nature a secret. "So obviously he had to go outside. Although next time he might remember to tell me first."

"Well, I don't know…" began Mummy but her attention was dragged over to Father, as he whispered something to her while pointing at Mycroft's retreating back.

'Coward,' thought Sherlock, as Mycroft abandoned his brother to face the repugnant fussing alone—as usual. He didn't count John, because John seemed to like the fussing.

Mummy tutted, then followed Mycroft—probably to give him advice.

"Sherlock, Sherlock," hissed John, tugging on Sherlock's damp, coat sleeve. "Sherlock! I won't actually be able to tell you when Fionn summons me again."

"Seriously, John?" spat Sherlock, who felt as if his bond with John were under attack from all angles tonight. "Is he more important to you than I am?"

"No! But you don't understand about Fionn. If he calls you—you, me, anyone—then you have to go."

"Even an instantaneous response does not preclude you from mentioning such a summons to someone like…oh, say...like your _boyfriend_!" said the brunet scathingly.

"Well, yes it does, actually," said John sounding like the voice of reason as he explained the unreasonable.

"Coffee?" Cousin Avaril interrupted brightly, handing John and Sherlock each a mug of coffee. "Luckily," she gushed like a hormonal geyser, "the gas stove is working, so the coffee is hot and fresh, unlike that tea, Sherlock gave you, John."

Sherlock scowled, after she disparaged his tea. He also did not want any coffee. John of course acted grateful for the courtesy, bestowing a beaming smile on Sherlock's all-too appreciative cousin. She looked askance at Sherlock, before beaming back at John.

Sherlock's scowl deepened as his boyfriend practically _flirted_ with Cousin Avaril. It was grossly unfair. After years of her unwanted devotion towards Sherlock, why did Avaril choose tonight to stop mooning over Sherlock? And why did she have to choose Sherlock's boyfriend to crush on? And why did John have to flirt back, or at least be so damned polite to an admittedly lovely young woman? And why did she have to give them these too hot, overly strong mugs of caffeinated piss, which clearly had too much milk and probably no sugar added to them?

At least John would hate the coffee as much as Sherlock did; that was some consolation, thought the detective, as the hot piss burned his mouth.

Then John smiled, unaware of how terribly Avaril brewed coffee. The blond sprite, whose gorgeous blue eyes were glued to Avaril's ugly green eyes, was just lifting the mug to his lips when a deep, velvety voice interrupted.

"That's the problem when you make unsuitable alliances outside your _own kind_ , John," said the unctuous baritone. His voice was as slippery as Mycroft’s albeit deeper. "They just don't understand the most basic concepts—like when one is compelled to follow one's fate." The stranger had appeared out of nowhere, stepping into John's space and jarring John's arm. Most of the terrible coffee in John’s mug spilled over John and Mummy's linoleum floor.

Just then, the house rocked with a crash of thunder, signaling another round of squalls.

John started and looked around the room, his eyes wide with alarm, before staring questioningly at the tall, handsome but rather anemic gentleman.

Sherlock shook John's arm, just in case the mysterious stranger was magical. He feared that the handsome stranger might be compelling Sherlock's leprechaun with some sort of spell. Hopefully, John wasn’t simply overcome by the man’s masculine beauty. In the process, John spilled more of his coffee, making Avaril cry out in disappointment.

The pale man sneered at Sherlock and gave his head an affected shake, whipping his long, dark hair over his shoulder.

'This stranger is even more cool than I,' the consulting detective thought with dismay. Then, wearing an obnoxious, Mycroft-ian smirk, the uber-cool stranger began dabbing at the coffee on John's already-sodden jumper with a small, embroidered tea towel.

Avaril sulked at being ignored.

Sherlock glared at the man's cool overfamiliarity. Then he recalled John's description of the Grim Reaper. This man was tall (taller even than Mycroft). He was clearly more cool than Sherlock and more handsome. (Well, maybe not _more handsome_ than Sherlock, who, knew that he was very attractive to both men, women and leprechauns—despite what he personally felt were oddly-shaped eyes and an over-long jaw.) The interloper also wore a cape that swished dramatically every time the man moved. Sherlock resolved to procure a cape as soon as he returned to London.

Another disturbing aspect of the man was that Sherlock wasn’t able to deduce him properly. "John," Sherlock breathed into the leprechaun's ear, "is this Mr. Death?"

John shook his head as if dazed ( _or bewitched_ ).

The leprechaun barely managed to whisper, "No." Then the former soldier and medical officer furrowed his brows and shook his head as if to clear it, saying firmly, "No. This is Richard Talbot." The leprechaun made Richard's name sound like a vile expletive.

John snatched the tea towel out of Talbot's hand and fruitlessly dabbed at his ruined jumper.

The tall man sneered condescendingly, then said with a voice like aged brandy, "John Watson, how _delicious_ to see you." He bent fluidly at the waist, to kiss first the palm of John's free hand, followed by kissing each of the leprechaun's cheeks, lingering over his injured left cheek, as if licking the blood off John's cut.

"Get off me! You thrice-cursed, blood-sucking leech!" cried John, violently shoving Richard aside. His coffee mug fell to the floor and shattered, accompanied by another roll of thunder. The blond practically trembled with rage as his fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly.

"Oh! Your coffee!" cried Avaril, sounding as angry as John looked. “And you never even tasted it!” No one aside from Sherlock took any notice of the woman. Indeed, he only noticed because he observed everything.

The pale man licked his red lips lasciviously, grinning at John. Sherlock wanted to wipe the smile off the obnoxious man's face, then kill him and then hide the body cleverly... but on second thought, perhaps John should have first crack at Richard, since he was the wronged party. Besides, John had already shoved Sherlock behind him.

Sherlock and his assembled relatives waited with bated breath for John to throw the first punch, but to Sherlock's surprise the leprechaun turned towards two more strangers, who were hidden behind Aunt Penelope and one of her large offspring, Clarence Otto.

"You two better keep him off me," John demanded, holding his cheek as if it burned. "If you can't keep this bugger under control, then you shouldn't bring him out into polite society," John complained to two beautiful blonds.

The man and woman were a bit shorter than John. Both were quite pale, fashionably thin and dressed in a fitted black suit and tight black halter dress respectively. Their dark blue-black-violet eyes skirted around the room, looking at Richard before fixing on John. They moved in unison. It didn't take a genius to deduce that they were twins. And yet that was all he could deduce. There was definitely something odd about these tea party crashers.

"Yes, yes, yes..." soothed the pretty young man, pursing his lips.

"...of course, Jean," agreed the pale lovely woman, rising up on her toes to plant a slow, luxurious kiss on John's pink lips. Sherlock wanted to kill her too.

"...you must settle down, mon ami," said her pallid twin, who also kissed John on the mouth. Sherlock was certain that the little Frenchman had used his tongue.

Unlike Richard, John didn't seem to mind when the twins kissed him, and Sherlock wanted to kill both of the blond visitors even more than he wanted to kill Richard.

"You know Reeshard is..." she slurred Richard's name with a very slight Parisian accent.

"... trying to wind you up…"her brother said.

"... as the Yanks like to say."

"As you no doubt…"

"...can tell,"

"we've just returned…"

"...from a visit to Cleveland…"

"...in the New World."

"It was ghastly…"

"…such crowds…"

"…and dreadful weather…

"...but at least the meals were tasty…"

"...and frequent…"

"...the Yanks are always so generous."

Apparently the twins shared that annoying double-talk habit. Sherlock was less jealous of them now, because he knew that John would find their way of finishing one another's sentences irritating too.

"Well, you just keep a leash on _him_ ," said John, jerking a thumb towards Richard while still rubbing his cheek with his other hand. At least the cut had finally stopped bleeding. "If he so much as touches me again…"

"I only wanted to kiss you and make the hurt all better," taunted the tall, pale man whose dramatic cheekbones looked artificial to Sherlock. He suspected that the man must have had cosmetic surgery to augment his zygomatic arches. He was ready to announce this to everyone, but stopped because John was snarling like the fierce little bull pup that the leprechaun had wanted to borrow from the pet store last week.

Sherlock was able to deduce that John and _Richard_ had a history, moving Richard to the top of Sherlock's To Kill List. "...bloody upper-class vampire," muttered John furiously, still rubbing his cheek. "...thinks he can feed on whomever he likes…"

"Whoever," corrected Sherlock and Richard in unison, which irritated Sherlock, because now Richard was making Sherlock seem pedantic.

John successfully darkened his glower—a fairly significant achievement for a blue-eyed blond. "I ought to sharpen up some wooden stakes,” hissed the sprite lunging at Richard Talbot.

The effete-seeming blond turned out to be much stronger than he looked, restraining the furious leprechaun with only one hand.

"I'll get you some more coffee, John," muttered Avaril. John didn’t seem to care, which pleased Sherlock immensely.

"Non, Jean. Reeshard will behave..." said the short, beautiful blond man.

"...because Mortimer is coming," said his alluring blond twin.

The blonds paused expectantly.

"I know all about Mortimer coming, and if you're here to warn me, don't bother," said John, apparently dashing their hopes of stunning John with this news, as the leprechaun’s face creased into even more furrows of displeasure.

Oh yes, John was very irritated with the twins. Sherlock bounced on his toes to celebrate having been right.

"I don't need any more warnings or portents," said John ungraciously, "unless you plan to give me something specific to go on."

"You know that's not allowed…"

"...we can only tell you that he's coming…"

"...tonight..."

"...for you."

"The hell he is!" snapped Sherlock. No one was going to take John. Besides, the detective had enough of this talking duo that said nothing important and yet uttered it in such a ridiculous fashion.

"Mortimer doesn't come from hell, gorgeous," purred Richard, who suddenly loomed over Sherlock. "But who are you? John, introduce me to your delicious friend."

"Richard, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Richard. He's a bloodsucker, and he's in publishing, which makes him doubly a monster to be avoided," said John. Before Sherlock could shake Richard's extended hand, John knocked the stranger’s hand aside, leaning forward to whisper loud enough for all the eavesdropping relatives to hear, "and if you so much as _touch_ him, _Richard_ , I'll light you up like a Samhain bonfire."

John pushed his soaking wet sleeves over his nicely muscled forearms and rubbed his still bloodstained hands together, apparently in preparation for the flambé. Indeed, Sherlock could already see a hint of light dancing in John's hands. So...the bonfire might not be an empty threat. Fascinating.

Richard's smirk faded into a frown of concern. Most of the guests were already stepping back to give the belligerent blond room to fight the cool brunet. Sherlock just hoped his relatives didn't see that John's hands were filling with light instead of preparing for fisticuffs.

Judging from the look on his face, Richard _could_ see the light welling up from John's fingers, confirming that Richard either had fairy sight too, or else he was another supernatural. Sherlock was prepared to wager on the latter.

The twins too, worriedly eyed John's hands as they hissed at Richard to "come away" and "stop making trouble" and "this is a tea party…" "…where are your manners?" Each of them tugged on Richard's absurdly melodramatic black cape.

While Sherlock agreed in principal with John's intent, he didn't want to explain John's partial non-humanity to his relatives; therefore, it seemed best to distract John from the reprehensible Richard.

Besides, even Sherlock thought it would be rude to set a guest on fire at Mummy's tea party. He placed a restraining hand on the leprechaun's shoulder, while suggesting that they change out of their wet clothes.

Normally, John was eager remove his clothing with Sherlock, but the leprechaun continued his unpleasant, out-of-character behavior, planting his feet firmly on the floor, while glaring daggers at the tall, dark stranger.

"Tea, anyone? Or scones? I managed to save a few," offered Mummy, pushing between John and his visitors with a tea tray and wagging her brows significantly at her younger son.

As was often the case, Sherlock couldn't decipher social signals, and he was uncertain what Mummy's dancing brows were meant to convey. Taking a shot in the dark, Sherlock decided to distract his always-hungry partner with food. The detective grabbed a scone, broke off a piece and shoved it into John's mouth.

Finding it difficult to face down his foe with a mouthful of hot, buttery scone, John was forced to back down, although he continued to send dark scowls at everyone—including Sherlock.

Richard looked down disdainfully at John, the tea tray and Mummy. "I don't do tea, nor do I do _scones_ ," he sneered. He whirled around, and his cape followed like a dark cloud of outrage, before he stalked off to lurk in a corner of the sitting room like a large bat.

Sherlock sneered back, unimpressed with the man's ludicrous melodramatics and no longer envious of the cape.

"He looks ridiculous flitting around in that cape," said the detective, leaning down to mutter into his shorter partner's ear. "No doubt he thinks he looks all dramatic and mysterious when it swirls around him."

John raised an eyebrow, as if surprised by this comment.

"But Sherlock, you…I mean…isn’t that very like your own coat?" stuttered the leprechaun.

"Oh really, John, not the same. Surely you're not impressed by his cape-swirling theatrics?"

John shook his head no and accepted another piece of scone from the hand of his proudly smirking companion.

"...and this is my sister, Jacinthe," said the male twin. He and his sister were chatting politely with Mummy.

"...and he's Adrien," said the short blonde.

"You two are French?" asked Mummy, who didn't mind being nosy.

"Oh, yes…"

"...we grew up in Lyon…"

"...but now we live in Paris..." Naturally, the twin pronounced it Parh-ree.

"...but we travel a lot."

"We were recently in Rome…"

"…and then Cleveland…"

" ...and now, London…"

"We especially…"

"…love the nightlife…"

"...that we find in the cities…" added Adrien.

"…but our favorite city is of course…"

"…Paris!"

Mummy courteously offered the twins tea and scones, which they politely declined.

"While the scones smell..." said twin number one (the female).

"...just heavenly," said twin number two.

"Sadly, we ate…"

"...just before coming here…"

"...so we'll have to pass on the scones."

"Well, tha' e'splains why they're 'n such good moods," John mumbled around a mouthful of scone.

"What was that, John?" Sherlock murmured.

John swallowed, licking his lips. (As always, Sherlock found John's pink tongue a bit distracting.) Then the leprechaun attempted to clarify. "They already _ate_." He must have observed Sherlock's blank look, so he continued his unhelpful explanation. "So they aren't hungry. Which is why they're in such good moods tonight. 'Course if they all ate before coming here, it doesn't explain why Richard is being even a bigger dick than usual. I guess he's just naturally a bloody prick."

The detective was used to John's confusing explanations and decided to table the discussion until they were alone. Just now he wanted to prevent John from lighting Richard up like a Roman candle. "Calm down, John," murmured Sherlock. "I won't let him kiss you again." He tried to distract the leprechaun with another bit of scone.

"It's not the kissing I'm worried about," said John, turning his face away from the pastry. "It's the sucking my blood out that worries me. That bloody vampire has a fetish for non-humans; he's been after a taste of my blood for years. I bet he'd just love to have a leprechaun for a thrall. I really wish he'd...Sherlock, are you all right?"

Sherlock was vaguely aware that his jaw had dropped unattractively, and he had accidentally pulverized the scone into tiny crumbs, as he stared at the…vampire?

"Sherlock! I wanted to finish that scone," complained John.

"Sherlock! You're getting crumbs all over the carpet," complained Mummy. "You always were the messy one." But this was _Mummy_ , so Sherlock stood there like a disgruntled statue until Mummy finished playing with his curls.

"His hair is still always messy," said Mummy fondly. Then she turned her attention to John. "Not like your hair, John. Your hair is so nice and neat. Not just now, of course. Just now it's sticking up like a hedgehog."

John blushed and tried to scurry away while combing his hair down with his fingers.

"Stay!" Mummy commanded John. The blond froze, and stood to attention. "Your two friends, John—they're twins, obviously—I mean to say, that they're lovely, just delightful. But...I'm not quite so sure about that Richard...I just wondered, if you two don't get on, then why invite him?"

"He invited himself," grumbled John. "And at one time he was my friend, a good friend...before we had a bit of a falling out. It began with a business deal gone sour and then…then there was trouble...over…over some dinner arrangements, I guess you could say."

"Oh! Well, perhaps it's time for you to bury the hatchet," suggested Mummy.

"No, ma'am, a hatchet wouldn't work," said John. "Maybe a wooden stake…"

John could no longer talk because Sherlock had stuck a convenient Jammy-dodger in his mouth.

"Excuse us, Mummy," said Sherlock, dragging John into the corner opposite Richard, the vampire. In the dark, candlelit room, they would be all but invisible to the relatives, who in any case, were busy eating everything in sight now that the promise of fisticuffs had vanished.

"First of all," said Sherlock. "I thought we agreed to keep your leprechaun side a secret."

"Yes. Certainly," John said with a nod. "But your brother’s already figured out that I wasn't completely human.”

"And _that_ little slip-up is going to haunt us," muttered Sherlock darkly. "He's bound to try to take you away to have you tested in a secret laboratory or something."

"Sorry," mumbled John, looking sad. John always looked mournful at the least hint of any separation between him and Sherlock.

"Never mind," said Sherlock, awkwardly patting his leprechaun's back. "Mummy likes you, so I can use her against him, if my fat brother tries to cause trouble."

John nodded, still looking troubled as he bit his lip.

"Anyway, I was not referring to Mycroft. I'm not sure whether that disclosure was entirely your fault." John's mouth dropped open, astonished to find that it was his fault at all. "No, I refer to you preparing to perform magic in the sitting room, and inviting a vampire to tea."

"Three. They're all three vampires," said John. "And I just told you; I didn't invite them; they invited themselves. The twins are Death's acolytes, so I suppose that explains why they're here. But I have no idea why Richard's here." John pursed his lips as he thought about it. "Nope. Nothing. I really have no idea why he showed up tonight, except to make my life miserable and upset the balance, which he did somehow. Twice, which is really bad. Bloody bloodsucking bastard."

"Hm. Is he really..." began Sherlock.

"...a vampire? Yes," finished John.

"And can you really set him…"

"...on fire? No, not really," said John, grumbling around another Jammy Dodger. "Not easily. But I can give him a dose of vitality, which will leave a nasty taste in his mouth. You saw how he backed down. He's..."

"...had a taste of it before..." suggested Sherlock, his eyes lighting up with another successful deduction.

"...when he tried to drink my blood," nodded John.

"… at that unfortunate dinner party that you referred to…"

"Will you two please stop talking like Adrien and Jacinthe?" hissed Mycroft, "it's..." "If you're quite finished behaving like children," began Mycroft.

"Wait...you know the twins?" asked John, feeding himself a finger sandwich, giving half to Sherlock, who automatically popped it in his mouth.

"Of course I know the twins, everyone who's anyone knows the twins," Mycroft replied, raising a superior eyebrow at his brother, who obviously didn't know the twins.

Sherlock's lips turned down in displeasure, while he chewed.

"But how..." began John.

"...do I know them?" said Mycroft, annoyingly completing John's question. "I make it my business to keep track of all registered vampires, especially ones belonging to the diplomatic corps."

John nodded respectfully at the representative of Her Majesty's government. Sherlock frowned harder; John was not supposed to gaze at his brother with respect. He also accepted half of another finger sandwich from John.

"I do wonder, John; how is it that _you_ know the twins and especially, Richard Talbot?" asked Mycroft, smiling appreciatively at Sherlock's lover.

"Cake, Mycroft?" interrupted Sherlock, proffering a slice of carrot cake. Mycroft curled his lip into a sneer and shook his head, before returning his glance to John with a smile.

Sherlock growled; Mycroft was not supposed to smile at John. He turned away from the food in John's hand, but then John pushed out his lower lip in a fetching pout, licking it for good measure. The detective sighed and took the offered bit of sandwich; it was ham and cheese with mustard. John smiled at Sherlock. The room seemed so much brighter when John smiled.

"We initially met at Rí Séamus's court," said John, answering Mycroft's query. John wasn't smiling back at Sherlock's older brother anymore, which was some comfort. "Later, Richard helped me publish some books. But then he cheated me, which I could have overlooked, because money isn't much use to a leprechaun. But then we had a disagreement over...over dinner plans."

"Ah," said Mycroft politely.

"And how do you know Richard, Mycroft?" asked John, as he fed Sherlock yet another piece of sandwich—chicken salad this time.

"Richard Talbot is a very influential individual. I've run into him at dinner parties and charity events...oh, and of course I see him at Ascot, every year without fail. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw him standing in Mummy's sitting room."

Sherlock almost choked when John nodded and smiled back at Mycroft. The younger Holmes would have gladly knocked Mycroft over with his fist. "So we'll just stand around making small talk while our home is invaded by vampires, and John receives supernatural death threats from bloodsuckers and flying horsemen?" demanded Sherlock.

While these questions were in fact, important, feared that he might be coming off a bit petulant. But he also didn’t appreciate being left out of the conversation. Nor was he comfortable with the way Richard was leering at him and John. Although in the darkened room, it was difficult to tell whether the creature was focusing on John or Sherlock. 

"The Sanguinarians are not threats to anyone. They are _registered_ vampires, Sherlock," said Mycroft as if explaining something to a child. "They would never bite a human without written consent."

"John isn't human," said Sherlock.

"Noooo, but if John really is Fae—of which I have yet to be convinced—then he can probably defend himself from a single vampire," said the bureaucrat superciliously.

“I’m not Fae!” John complained.

The Holmes brothers overlooked his protest "Mm, I wonder then...why is that vampire looking over here and licking his lips?" asked Sherlock.

The brothers and the sprite turned to meet Richard's dark gaze.

"Bloody hell!" exclaimed the leprechaun, stiffening with rage and rubbing his hands together. "Now he's gone too far."

"John, he's just trying to get a rise out of you. Mycroft said the vampires won't bite without written consent," reassured Sherlock, feeling fairly certain that Mycroft was right, because Mycroft was almost always right.

"For God's sake, Sherlock! He's not after your blood. He's trying to cast a bloody glamour on you! He's trying to get into your pants!" John snarled. "I'll flood him with vitality. Then, when he's stunned by the overdose, I'll stick a stake through his bloodless heart, and then, just to make sure, I'll set him on fire with the lighter that you've hidden in your pocket along with those nasty cigarettes."

Sherlock hadn't felt any weird attraction for the vampire, so he wondered if the vampire really was casting a glamour as John asserted. However, the detective did feel a twinge of conceited pleasure when John became jealous on his account, so he let the matter be. He was also proud of John for discovering that Sherlock had hidden cigarettes in his coat.

On the other hand, it would be a bit not good for John to stab Richard in the heart and set him on fire with Sherlock's lighter. At the very least, this should not be done in Mummy's sitting room and in front of witnesses. He pulled the furious ex-soldier further into the corner and held his hands, simultaneously dimming the nascent glow and calming the infuriated sprite.

"John," said Sherlock. "No one is getting into my pants."

"Except me," John amended quickly.

"Dear God, must you two carry on so at Mummy's tea party?" complained Mycroft.

"You weren't invited into this conversation," said Sherlock, who finally had John's full attention. "Go away, Mycroft. Eat some cake. Make dinner plans with Richard."

"No. I need to ascertain who is under threat of death and why," said the British government, smoothing down the front of his immaculate three-piece suit.

"Wait, where did he get dry clothes?" asked John, looking down at his own sodden, muddy and blood stained clothing. Then the blond shivered—right on cue.

"Mycroft travels with a full wardrobe of suits," said the younger Holmes, putting an arm around his shivering leprechaun.

Sherlock had gotten almost as wet as John, but John seemed to tolerate the cold poorly. He was always wearing multiple layers of clothing—favoring heavy, shapeless jumpers. The sprite had once mentioned that the weather in Faerie was always warm and temperate, except for the two obligatory months of winter when the snow fell in perfect drifts like one might see on a Christmas card.

It occurred to the detective that he should probably insist that John change his clothes before he became even more chilled. This was an excellent plan; it would separate John from Richard, give Sherlock a chance to ask the important questions and allow him to spend some time alone with his lover.

"Come along, John," said Sherlock, ignoring his exasperated sibling. "Let's find some dry clothes; I'm sure there's plenty of my old things upstairs. Mummy never wants to toss anything."

"John hasn't answered my question," said the British government.

"I can't answer it," said John. "Portents and omens are nearly impossible to understand unless you're a seer. I am a leprechaun, not a seer. All I know is that Death is coming to tea."

"Maybe he's coming for you, John. You do bear the mark of Fionn," said Mycroft heartlessly.

John did not deny this, and Sherlock felt the urge to take John back to London at once, despite the renewed winds that battering his parent's home.

"Or maybe the mark is a protective rune..." said Adrien.

“…indicating Fionn’s claim…” said Jacinthe.

"...and so shielding Jean from whatever danger is lurking about.” Adrien finished.

That was less than helpful, thought Sherlock, as he tried to sneak his boyfriend away.

Mycroft as usual, had to interfere, grabbing Sherlock’s arm. "It would help if we knew the nature of the threat," said Mycroft, turning first to the leprechaun and then to the twins.

"Mycroft..."

"...surely you understand…"

"...that the portents are seldom…"

"...made clear…"

"...to anyone."

"John, will staying here talking to Mycroft help us to determine the threat?" demanded Sherlock.

"Nope," said John, shaking his head. "We're just going to have to wait for more portents or the arrival of Death himself."

"Fine, then let's get you out of those wet clothes."

"I really think I should stay and keep an eye on Richard," John said. "Not only is he a bloodsucker, but he's a confidence man—you just can't trust him."

"Mycroft, keep an eye on the bloodsucker in the corner," said Sherlock loudly. "I have to go change John's clothes."

John sighed, resigned to following Sherlock, despite his misgivings.

Richard, Jacinthe and Adrien, looking deeply offended, stared at Sherlock. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. Perhaps the word bloodsucker might be a pejorative term amongst their kind.

He noted that almost everyone else looked scandalized too. Possibly, they had finally realized that there were vampires in the room; more likely, they were shocked, because Sherlock was going to change his lover's clothing.

Sherlock could care less.

He intercepted some angry looks sent his way by Cousin Avaril. He added her to the list of Beings Who Wanted to Shag John. If she wasn't careful, Miss Avaril might even get on to the detective's Need To Kill List.

He placed his hand on John's back, and escorted his boyfriend up the stairs, eager to both strip John out of his wet clothes and to get some answers about Death who was coming to Mummy's tea.

**Author's Note:**

> I will try to update this fix regularly, possibly weekly, but when RL gets in the way, there may be delays.


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